


Norman

by ameliajean



Category: Black Books
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:12:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajean/pseuds/ameliajean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fran is frazzled, Bernard just wants to sleep, and Norman is craving tomato juice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Norman

Fran's eyes snap open in a wild panic and she sits up in bed, pulling the covers round her waist. It's been three (no, four) months since she wretched all over the shop sofa, unceremoniously wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and informed her best friend that they would soon be responsible for a very small human being.

She punches him in the arm.

Bernard grumbles, half-asleep. "What? I'm not getting you another glass of tomato juice."

"We'll have to get one of those - one of those _vans_."

It takes him a moment to calibrate his thoughts and decide that Fran has awoken at half three, yet again, to lament their lack of stable living arrangement, transportation, and general readiness regarding the weird, alien-looking thing currently residing in her uterus.

"Don't be ridiculous. Manny can't ride in vans."

"What are we going to call him?"

He decides to humour her, as this tends to speed the process along.

"Norman."

"That's a terrible name. What if he wants to be a doorman?"

"So? What if he does?"

"So, people will call him _Norman the Doorman_."

Bernard kicks the duvet onto the floor and toes off his socks, watching her silhouette contort on the bedroom door as she worries a bit of her sleeve between her teeth. Yes, he's noticed that she seems more frazzled than usual, and yes, maybe he hasn't been of that much help (because honestly, he's utter shit at this, all of it).

But he's tired and hates everything and is _trying_ to be better at whatever this is.

It's just that, it's the goddamned middle of the night and he only fell asleep an hour ago because Fran snores like a freight train. (Some formerly-champagne-addled part of his brain already knew this, though, and the knowledge is inextricably twined with hazy memories of confetti and a midnight countdown.)

So maybe he's fully awake now and maybe he wants to show her how ridiculous she's being, even if some _(very small, mind you)_ part of him is worried, too.

"What if he wants to make boiled sweets and take strolls through glens with strange men?"

"If our son wants to boil sweets and takes strolls with men, he damn well can, Bernard, and so help me Christ I will smother you with a pillow if you don't start taking this seriously."

Bernard pokes at her hip with an elbow.

"We'll talk about it in the morning, okay? I'll make tea. Tea will be made, a conversation will be had, and possibly some toast with jam," he says, in his best platitudinous voice, and bumps his elbow against her hip again. "Alright?"

She exhales loudly, though doesn't move to lie down. "Fine."

They're silent for a moment.

"Ms. Katzenjammer, _go to sleep_."

"Yes, alright, fine," she says, resigned.

He flops an arm across her pillow as a peace offering of sorts, as if to say _I am trying harder, honestly, but let me sleep right now_ , and she finally settles against it. He pulls her a bit closer (because he's too lazy to retrieve the duvet, and it's cold, and that's the only reason, _really_ ).

A few minutes stretch by and he's teetering on the edge of sleep when her voice breaks through to pull him back into consciousness.

"Will we, you know," she pauses a tick, deciding that tempering her words would be ridiculous. "D'you think we'll get married, and all that business?"

"That thing you're doing with your mouth is getting in the way of the thing I'm trying to do with my eyes."

She frowns, imperceptible in the dark.

"Right."

"Yes," he says, eventually.

"Yes."

"Not because of Norman," he clarifies.

"Okay."

"Okay."

When he awakes the next morning, Bernard heaves himself onto his side, Fran having rolled away to the edge of the bed as they slept. He watches the back of her neck where her hair is overgrown, the curve of her hip where her pyjama bottoms have ridden down, the twitch of her toes as the cold air filters in through the half-open window.

He slowly climbs out of bed, locates his dirty socks on the bedroom floor, and manages to roll them onto her feet without waking her.

They have tea and toast with jam.

They don't buy a van.

(Mostly because Manny can't ride in vans.)


End file.
